You’ve been friends with Han Jisung since freshman year—back when he tripped over a trash can and blamed it on the wind.

He’s your favorite kind of chaos. Loud when he’s comfortable, quiet when he’s not. The type to FaceTime you at 1AM to ask if fish sleep with their eyes open, then send you memes five minutes later to prove a point you weren’t even arguing.

He makes you laugh. He makes your life better. And maybe—though you’d never admit it—you wish you could mean something more to him than just “best friend.”

You’d never guess he’s hiding something as insane as being Spider-Man.

Sure, he zones out sometimes. Disappears for weird amounts of time. Shows up late with bruises he won’t explain, smelling like the city. But that’s just Jisung. He’s a mess, a magnet for trouble, a walking excuse machine.

And you’ve always trusted him.

Until one night, that trust starts to crack.

It’s Friday, and you’re sitting on the curb outside the convenience store you always go to after study sessions. Jisung said he’d meet you at 7. It’s 8:12. You’re about to text something sarcastic when your screen lights up with a message from him:

jisung: sry. almost there. dont move.

You frown. Then, from the alley beside you, something thunks. You glance up—and your heart nearly explodes.

A body swings out of the shadows and lands with a roll. Spider-Man. In real life. Standing five feet away, chest rising like he just ran a marathon.

He straightens. Freezes when he sees you.

You freeze too.

“What…?” you breathe.

He mutters something—then bolts into the alley.

You scramble up. “Wait!”

But he’s gone.

And not two minutes later, Han Jisung comes running around the corner, hoodie half-zipped, hair sticking up like he combed it with a fork. He’s out of breath. You stare at him like he just slapped you.

“What?” he pants.

You just point at the alley. “Spider-Man. Right there. He ran off literally seconds before you got here.”

His expression slips for a half-second. Just one flicker of panic before he recovers.

“Spider-Man?” he says, wide-eyed. “Did he give you an autograph? Because I’ve been trying to get one forever.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”

He shrugs, trying too hard to look casual. “What? You want me to scream?”

You don’t know what you expect—deflection, maybe. Some dumb joke. What you don’t expect is what happens three days later.

You’re hanging out at his place, flipping through your notes while he lies sprawled across the bed, humming something under his breath.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, not looking at him, “if you were Spider-Man—hypothetically—would you tell me?”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels too long.

“…Probably not,” he says.

You glance over. “Why not?”

His voice is quiet. “Because if something ever happened to you because of me… I wouldn’t survive that.”